


that's the real me, babe

by AliuIce0814



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Anal Fisting, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Blow Jobs, Bottom Steve Rogers, Creepy Brock Rumlow, HYDRA Trash Party, Hurt No Comfort, Impact Play, M/M, Natasha Is a Good Bro, Past Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Restraints, Rimming, Slurs, Spanking, Steve Has Issues, those electric prod dealios, throw me in the trash compactor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 09:07:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5491622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliuIce0814/pseuds/AliuIce0814
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Steve knew Brock was Hydra, he wouldn't let him screw him like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	that's the real me, babe

**Author's Note:**

> Heads up: Brock uses the slur "faggot" in reference to Steve throughout this story. Steve lets him. Steve is not universally known for making healthy choices.

           Brock’s fingers tighten their grip on Steve’s hair. Steve’s head jerks back to relieve the pressure, but Brock doesn’t let up. Steve’s eyes itch and burn. He strains against Brock’s hold, licking his lips, trying to beg when his throat’s too tight for words. When Brock presses his free thumb against Steve’s mouth, Steve sucks it in. He tastes like metal and shitty cologne.

            Brock makes a sound that stands Steve’s hair on end—it’s so close to the noise he makes when he’s hurt. He runs his thumb along Steve’s teeth. Steve whines. “Damn,” Brock says. “You’re a little faggot, aren’t you, Stevie?”

            Steve bites down hard, harder, until he tastes blood. Pain rockets through his cheek—he rears back, spitting, jerking out of Brock’s grip. His heart pounds so hard that his ribs hurt, and then tears spill over the bruise growing on his face because Brock hit him, Brock mocked him and hit him—

            “Hey, hey!” Brock grabs the back of Steve’s neck. Something wet—blood or spit or both—smudges Steve’s skin. Before Steve can twist out of his grip, Brock’s on his knees, level with Steve. His eyes look black. Steve’s never noticed how dark they are. They narrow. “What the fuck, Rogers? Explain, Now.”

            “I’m sorry,” Steve chokes out. “You said—you said—”

            “What, ‘faggot’?” Brock’s mouth curls upward. Steve shakes his head. “You are, though. Trying to suck my dick, right? You’re a pretty little faggot, Stevie.”

            Steve shakes his head harder. “Don’t,” he says, “Don’t call me—”

            “Faggot?” Brock says.

            Steve shudders. “‘Stevie.’”

 _Stevie,_ a drawling voice murmurs, years in the past. Warm callused dockworker’s hands are on his shoulders, then his cheeks, then carding through his hair. _Baby doll, how come you’re all red for me, huh? Whatcha doing on your knees? My Stevie boy want something?_

“Faggot’s fine,” Steve says hoarsely. “Just not the other thing. Ever.” He makes sure he makes his voice hard. He squares his jaw and his shoulders, giving Brock a look he normally reserves for when he has to give STRIKE orders. “Or I won’t suck you off.”

            Brock’s eyebrows go up. “You tryin’ to call the shots now, Cap? You said you didn’t want to be in charge here. You gonna be disrespectful? Get mouthy?”

            “This is the only time. I swear.” Steve licks his lips at the menace seeping through Brock’s words and etched in the lines of his face. Brock’s fingers tighten in Steve’s hair, pulling until the prickling pain makes his eyes water. Then he stands, dragging Steve forward on his knees until Steve’s face is buried against his still-clothed crotch. Steve’s spine tenses, but in the best way; if Brock decided to rake his fingers up it, Steve would scream. That’s a Bucky trick, though, not Brock’s. Hell, Steve’s not sure what Brock’s tricks are. They’ve never done this before.

          “Let me,” Steve says. He’s too tense to unzip Brock’s fly with his teeth like he wants to. He looks up at him through his lashes instead. His face flames. His skin stings where Brock slapped him. He swallows. He wants the weight of Brock’s dick on his tongue. He wants the mindless motion of sucking. He wants the sharp tang of cum in his mouth. “C’mon. Fuck my mouth.”

           Brock’s lips part. Then he smiles, all teeth, like a dog ready to snap. “Oh, Cap,” he says. He unzips his fly and pushes his pants down.

          Steve doesn’t have a gag reflex.

…

           Brock’s not kind when they’re fucking. Steve finds out pretty quick that he’s okay with that. The next time Brock slaps him, it’s because Steve asks for it: right across the ass, again and again, as Brock jerks him off. Every time Steve yelps or groans, Brock praises him. “Good boy,” he says. “Don’t want you to be able to sit, boy. Don’t want you to sit for days.”

           Of course all that purple broken skin knits together overnight. Bruises fade so quickly on Steve that it wouldn’t matter if Brock slapped his face. No one would know.

           But Steve wants pain, not cruelty—not like that slap earlier. Not like Brock using Bucky’s sweet name for him.

 _Stevie._ It sounded so pretty on Bucky’s lips. Coming from Brock, it’s a slur.

…

            Natasha’s eyebrows arch. “Really,” she says, voice flat. “Rumlow.”

            Steve’s heart goes a little faster than it should. Natasha can probably hear it, the spy that she is. “What about him?” he says as if Natasha can’t see through him.

            The look Natasha levels at him makes Steve’s heart beat even harder. It’s the same disgusted glare Peggy gave him when she caught him kissing that blonde dame. “Honestly, Rogers,” Tasha says.

            “What?” Steve says.

            “Janet in Accounting is single.”

            “So?”

            “Caroline in Ballistics. Kyleigh in PR. Elise in Medical.”

            “Natasha. I don’t need a girlfriend.”

            Natasha shrugs, one shoulder heading toward her ear. “Jonah from Tech is cute. Geeky, kind of twitchy, but cute.”

            “Or a boyfriend. I already—” Steve shakes his head. What’s he going to say? Already have somebody to fuck me in the ass? “I already have too much on my plate.”

            Natasha nods. “Okay.” Steve’s shoulders loosen. He leans against the wall, feeling the plane shudder. Brock’s probably gripping the steering so tight that his knuckles yellow. He’ll have a lot of pent-up energy tomorrow. Swing his hand faster. Hit harder. Steve shifts his weight, thinking of the sting on his ass.

            “Cole in Statistics?” Natasha asks. Steve sighs and flips her off.

….

            Their next target is in Montreal. Pierce and Fury say something about terrorism, and Rollins guesses some kind of radicalized cell like Batroc’s tried to make the jump to North America. But Brock shakes his head. Steve doesn’t know what Brock knows. He trusts him, but whatever special knowledge Brock has about this mission, Steve doesn’t have. It bothers him. Gets under his skin. Itches, crawls.

            Steve heads straight for the shower when he gets back to his apartment. He focuses on the too-hot water stinging his back. Not on the unease that Brock’s tiny head-shake put in him. Not on the way that taking the STRIKE team into an offensive on Allied soil makes his stomach churn.

            Brock’s sitting on the couch when Steve comes back from the bathroom. He’s turning a silver stick over and over in his hands. When he sees Steve, he smirks and tosses it high, flipping it like a baton. “Check this out, Cap. New gear from Pierce.”

            “What is it, some kind of nightstick?”

             “Nah, it’s better than that. Watch.” Brock flips a switch, and the stick zaps. Steve jerks back instinctively, away from the reek of ozone. They’ve just finished a movie marathon, part of his 21st century training, and all Steve can think is, _Is that a fucking lightsaber?_ “More precise than a Taser.” Brock flips the baton again—while it’s still on—and somehow catches it the right way up, not shocking himself. “And pretty damn cool. Well, from my end of the stick.” Brock’s eying Steve with that familiar leer. The buzzing end of the baton is far too close to Steve’s damp chest.

             “No,” Steve says. His voice rings through the room. “No, Brock. Hard limit, hard limit.”

              Brock raises his eyebrows. “Okay, Miss Steele. Hard limit, ha. Since when do you have those?”

              “Since I don’t want to be Tased in the chest, Brock, now cut it out. Use it on our target, not on me.” Steve’s ears pound. It’s been months since Brock slapped his face, but his face suddenly tingles.

              “All right, okay.” Brock turns the baton off and sets it gingerly on the coffee table. “See if I ever try to do something nice for you again.”

             “‘Nice’?” Steve can’t keep his frustration from boiling over. “Eat my ass.”

            Brock leans back against the couch. Puts his hands behind his head. Tilts his chin up. Watches Steve. “You eat mine.”

            Steve can’t swallow or catch his breath. He swipes his tongue over his lips. He’s wheezing through his nose as he works his tongue into Bucky, as Bucky’s fingernails scrape the wooden headboard, as Bucky clenches around him and shakes apart. “Oh.”

            “Hard limit?” Brock sneers.

            “Get cleaned out,” Steve rasps. His skin’s boiling now. He’s going to leave teeth marks on Brock’s ass. He’s going to make him scream.

            Brock’s laugh comes from low in his chest. He slaps Steve’s shoulder as he stands, heading for the bathroom. “Attaboy.”

…

            The target’s duck pond is covered in a layer of orange leaves. Steve wants to step on the carpet of them. For a second he’s sure that they could bear his weight. He’s got one foot hovering over the water before he catches himself. Steve’s heart jolts, adrenaline rushing through him. He steps back, shaking his head hard. “Wake up, Rogers,” he mumbles. “The Serum doesn’t make you Jesus.” He hears the words in a wry drawl. He can smell cologne and Coney Island dogs all of a sudden. He shakes his head. Has to get it together. Thirty-six hours without sleep is no excuse for hallucinating somebody who’s dead.

            Branches crackle behind Steve. He smells cologne again, stronger now, but he knows who douses themselves in that nauseating, nose-aching Axe shit. “Could smell you coming a mile off,” he says without turning around.

            The crunching of branches stops. “Really?” Brock asks.

            “Serum,” Steve says.

            “It makes your nose that strong?” Brock’s so incredulous that he almost sounds disgusted. Steve shrugs. He can feel the blood in his face. He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Goddamn bloodhound,” Brock says cheerfully. He comes up beside Steve. He’s whistling a little when he breathes; when Steve looks over at him, there’s blood crusted red and black around his nose. Steve bites down on the urge to order him to Medical.

            “Looks like my parents’ place,” Brock says. “They’ve got a pond like this.”

            “Yeah?”

            “Yeah. It’s good for fishing.” Brock’s eying the water. Steve keeps still. Brock doesn’t talk about his parents, or fishing, or really anything but the next mission and fucking Steve. “You know how to fish, Cap?”

            The laugh that bursts out of Steve hurts his stomach. Black birds launch out of the nearest tree, complaining in their harsh bird voices. “Not a whole lot of fishing holes in Brooklyn,” he says. He pictures a dark-haired boy in suspenders leaning his whole torso over the edge of a dock, bare feet kicking as he tries to grab fish. He can just see how his arms flapped when Steve reached out and shoved him into the Hudson. More laughter explodes from him. Hysteria. Steve thinks. Huh. He forces his chest full of air and breathes it all out. His eyes burn when he wipes his face on the neck of his shirt.

            “We can see if this jackass had any poles in his shed,” Brock says. “You’re a patient guy. I bet I could teach you in the time it takes Sitwell to clean up the house.”

            We should be helping him, Steve thinks. He tips his face up to catch the weak sun filtering through the leaves. He thinks about catching a fish, how it must wriggle on the line, scales flashing in the light. He thinks about gutting it, knife through its sleek stomach. He thinks about the reek of intestines spilling out.

            Steve’s fingernails are tight with dried blood crusted beneath them. He scrubbed his hands in the target’s bathroom, but he couldn’t get off all the grime. He hit the target with his shield at just the right angle to strike an artery. The target’s not dead, Sitwell says Steve did what he had to and the guy’ll still be useful for interrogation. But Steve can feel the hot spray of blood. His throat feels thick. “Not today,” he says.

            “Not today?” Brock echoes. When Steve looks at him, Brock’s mouth is turned down at the corners.

            Steve’s skin prickles. He gestures at the orange-carpeted pond. “Too many leaves.” He swallows. “I mean, I don’t know anything about fishing, but….”

            “Nah, you’re right.” Brock sighs. “Guess we shouldn’t be neglecting our duty, huh, Cap?”

            Steve can tell from the set of Brock’s shoulders what he wants. He wants Steve to give him a break—give them both a break. In a woods like this, in France, Steve would have led the Commandos straight into the water for a swim. Except for Dum-Dum, of course. He couldn’t swim. He would have watched and taken the mickey out of all of them for how pale their asses were. Maybe Morita would have dunked him. Gabe would be splashing Jacques. Someone would have come up behind Steve and shoved him down, callused hands on his shoulders, laughing bright and clean as Steve choked on water and rotting leaves. “Gotcha, punk,” he would have heard through clogged ears before he grabbed the jerk by his ankles and tried to drown him, too.

            Steve can’t imagine grabbing Brock by his ankles. Besides, he’s a different man here in the future. He’s not the captain the Commandos knew, cussing and dunking his sergeant. He’s the Captain America Brock and the rest apparently grew up reading about in comic books: stern, old-fashioned, law-abiding. Steve gets the feeling that, if he acted like the pissed-off scrapper he is inside while he’s in uniform, SHIELD would put him on the ice for another seventy years.

            “Let’s go,” Steve says. He squares his shoulders and his jaw. He doesn’t miss Brock’s disappointed huff. As he turns to leave the red-and-gold of the woods, he brushes his fingers against Brock’s. There are scars on top of scars there.

…

            Rollins pins the target to the metal wall of his cell with magnetic cuffs. The target’s a large man, but he dangles two feet off the ground, suspended by those restraints. Steve watches through the two-way mirror. He holds himself perfectly at parade rest. His cheeks are not pink. They really aren’t.

             Brock comes up alongside him, shoulder to shoulder. Steve keeps his eyes trained on the cuffs. Brock huffs. “I can see your little faggy mind working,” he says quietly. “What do you see that you like?”

            “You’re the smartest man on my team, Brock.” Steve smiles, as reckless as jumping out of a plane. “Figure it out.”

…

            “Good boy,” Brock says, “oh, good boy,” and Steve comes, muscles shaking, letting the magnetic cuffs pinned to Brock’s metal headboard bear his weight. Brock’s got two fingers in his ass. He didn’t even touch Steve’s dick. “You and your goddamn praise kink,” Brock says in that half-mean, half-admiring sexed-up voice of his. He pushes another finger into Steve. Steve groans a noise that sounds too high to be him and lets his head drop. He presses his sticky cheek to his shoulder. Brock laughs. “You gonna come again if I fuck you?” Steve wets his lips. Brock spreads his fingers wide. Steve keens, thighs shuddering. Everything in the whole world is the stretch of Brock’s fingers. Steve nods.

            “Christ. Ya fag,” Brock says. He smiles wider, all teeth. Steve’s skin aches when he smiles back. He sees praise in the crinkled skin around Brock’s eyes. Brock’s fingers curl just right. Steve’s abs clench. His fingers spasm, trying to clutch the sheets, but he can’t escape the magnetic cuffs. He doesn’t want to escape. The strain turns his skin red, but he doesn’t want to escape. Steve’s soft, but his thighs and stomach are seizing up like he’s about to come. Black spots pop in front of his eyes.

            Another finger’s in him, four now. Steve can’t catch his breath. “Fuck, Steve,” Brock says. Steve yells. “What do you want?” Brock asks. “Huh?” He rubs his thumb around Steve’s hole, and oh fuck, Steve doesn’t think he can take it but wants to desperately. He nods. His head flops, chin to sweat-soaked chest. He vibrates with a sound so low that he doesn’t think it’s even coming from him.

            That sound extends, echoing, as Brock’s thumb pushes in. Steve’s jaw drops. He breathes shallowly through his mouth, and it’s not enough, he’s not enough to take this. Brock will fucking break him, he’s splitting him, he’s pushing the meat of his fist into Steve. Steve arches off the bed, shuddering, howling. There’s no cum left in him, but he’s coming, every muscle taut.

            And Brock’s still pushing in.

            “Good boy, good boy, what a good little faggot, Steve, fuck, Jesus Christ, nobody’d believe me if I told them how good you are for me, taking my whole goddamn fist—fuck,” Brock spits. His undone belt buckle jangles in that way that means he’s jerking off. Steve wants to spread his thighs wider to take it, take everything Brock gives him, but his legs end up thrashing. He thinks Brock’ll slap his ass for it, but instead he just pushes in—

            And his whole fist is inside Steve.

            Steve can’t stop clenching around his wrist. “Relax,” Brock orders, and Steve sags against the cuffs. His muscles tremble finely from his shoulders to his abs to his thighs. Brock moves his fingers, just barely—they can’t uncurl all the way, but _oh god_ his knuckles brush against Steve just right. Steve keens. Brock moves his fingers inside him again, again, and Steve’s soft but he’s so close to coming that he can see spots already.

            “Good boy, loose fuckin’ boy,” Brock says in that familiar distracted voice. Steve listens to his belt buckle jangle. Feels those fingers stroking him from the inside. Feels the cool solid weight of the cuffs holding him up. Feels the tremors in his stomach and arms and legs. “You go when I go, okay?” Brock says. “Fuck, fuck, my fucking boy, gonna—”

            He comes all over Steve’s stomach.

            His fist twists hard inside Steve.

            Steve—

            Steve open his eyes. Brock’s standing over him, holding a damp cloth. He’s already buckled himself back into his pants. Steve blinks slowly. Everything about him feels slow. His ass burns. He breathes slowly through his mouth. “Won’ be able sit f’days,” he mumbles through numb lips. They can’t smile right.

            “Good boy,” Brock says roughly. He moves the damp cloth over Steve’s quivering stomach and chest far more gently than Steve could have ever imagined him doing before this. “Such a good faggot for me.” He tosses the cloth aside and shakes his head, smiling. “Guess I’m a faggot too, huh? Whole goddamn fist in your ass. Jesus, Rogers, how many times did you come? Four?”

            Steve’s eyes flutter. Everything’s gray and hazy. He wants to respond, but his mouth won’t work. All of a sudden, he’s shaking, wracked by uncontrollable tremors. Far above his head, Brock says, “Shit, Cap.” The warm soft fleece of his blanket slips over Steve’s chilled skin. The shudders subside, bit by bit. Steve presses his damp face against the mattress and lets out one sob. He swallows the rest.

            “I’ll take the couch,” Brock says. He squeezes Steve’s shoulder. The floorboards creak when he moves away. Steve’s loose and soft and unbelievably raw. He closes his eyes before Brock turns out the lights.

…

            They tried to cuff Steve to the fucking elevator. Fifteen men to one. To trap him, kill him, not fool around. Not one on one, in bed, when Steve can snap _hard limit_ or bite.

             Brock’s baton hums to life. “It’s not personal, Stevie,” he spits. His cologne’s nauseating at this range. He said he wouldn’t use the prods. He said he wouldn’t _use that name._

             Steve rides his stomach-turning rage and _fights._

**Author's Note:**

> THROW ME IN THE FUCKING TRASH COMPACTOR. I HATE MYSELF FOR WRITING THIS BUT I HAD TO DO IT OR THIS SHITTY FUCKING STORY WOULD NEVER HAVE LEFT ME ALONE
> 
> basically i had to write *something* so i could have some hydra trash in my life that wasn't rape fic (nononono). because ughhhhh i am trash, i have fallen into the dumpster and i cannot leave
> 
> i'm sorry (ish)


End file.
